


Toccata and Fugue

by NotSoDamned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternative Universe - DID, Alters, Angst, Blackouts, Dark Will Graham, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Doctor/Patient, Dogs, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Dubious Consent, Empathy, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannigram - Freeform, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Multiple Personalities, Murder Husbands, Murder Mystery, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Prison (at some point), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Someone Help Will Graham, Thriller, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2020-07-25 14:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSoDamned/pseuds/NotSoDamned
Summary: Will Graham is sinking low, terribly low, his life torn apart by blackouts and complicated relations. When his new psychiatrist - Doctor Hannibal Lecter - diagnoses him with Dissociative Identity Disorder, his whole world seems to crumble and he takes conscience of a terrifying truth: he doesn't know himself. After Hannibal shows to be much different from the man he seems to be and Will uncovers awful parts of his being, will love still arise?N.B. : All the alters presented as Will Graham's in this story are real. I've been suffering from DID for years now and writing this story helps me understand and accept my condition - it is therapy. I don't pretend to be representative from persons with this mental specificity and I am very insistent on the fact that this reflects only my split personality as it is currently and not this of others. Please stay respectful in the comment section.





	1. Exposition

** _ Exposition: _ **

** _"The first section of a movement written in sonata form, _ ** ** _introducing the melodies and themes."_ **

_His eyes are searching, looking around almost convulsively. His blue orbs mirror the pale full moon, skin shining bright under the diffuse light flow. Suddenly, he feels himself fall back into a fathomless pit, nothing under his feet anymore: just an endless void he sinks in. After what seems like hours, but might as well have been seconds, he finally reaches the surface. Time and time again has he broken through the quiet of this dark stream: he knows the feeling of thick blackness engulfing him. It's like mud, all over his body, a thick veil hiding the paleness of his opal colored dermis. His muscles fight against the weight pulling him down, all his strength is reduced to this never-dying will. He lets a resigned breath out as he finally gives in, his spine bowing back like a once compressed stick. With one last whimper, his body is engulfed once and for all by this ocean of obscurity._

He hears the scream seconds after having woken up, yet he acknowledges it as his own minutes after. His hair is damp, sticking to the skin of his forehead, and his throat feels so dry it aches. He gulps difficultly, holding his head in shaky hands, awaiting here until he acquires the certainty that the floor beneath him isn't going to collapse. Then he gets up slowly, careful with each step, rubbing a hand over his cheek. His back feels sore from arching in his sleep, and both his arms and fists are covered in red marks - probably from hitting, again and again, the frame of his bed. He feels the need to check, turns around, scanning until he manages to see the broken night table beside the bed. The once little cabinet is unrecognizable now, having left a few impacts on the wall beneath it when it shrunk down. He sighs wearily, disregarding the matter for the time being. He is used to replacing this kind of furniture weekly, anyway.

He reaches the kitchen, pours himself a generous amount of water and almost sobs as it goes down his burning throat, hands still shaking. He gets out afterward, bare feet upon the wooden ground of the porch. Winston gets to him slowly, and he reaches down for him, brows knitted together in deep focus. However, as hard as he tries, he finds himself incapable of remembering the slightest bit of the previous evening's events. He shakes his head, letting his dog lick his hands and arm, gasping as he feels a staging pain in his knuckles. He shoves Winston's nose away from his skin a little abruptly and looks at his hand only to see a deep cut running from his annular to his palm. He gulps, watching blood flow over the delicate skin of his inner forearm. Now, that is unusual.

He gets back in, moving more like an automaton than a human being. He bandages his palm as well as he can manage to with a piece of cloth, then grabs his phone with his good hand. He cringes when he sees how way-to-late-for-this-shit it is but dials Jack's number anyway. A few rings echo on the other end of the line before a sleepy and hoarse voice finally answers. "Jack Crawford, I hope it's important." Will gulps softly, all possible ways to present things parading in his mind._ Hey Jack, I think I'm losing my mind. Hey Jack, I just cut myself, no idea how, 'cause I blacked out... again. Hey Jack, I'm fucking tired and I can't sleep because of a nightmare I've had like ten times this week. Hey Jack. Hey..._ He rolls lightly his wrist, as if to brush all the inconvenient thoughts away, then whining at the flash of pain the movement caused. He can picture quite easily the thick drops of sweat making their way down his back and takes an instinctive step towards the bathroom at the feeling.

"Hey, Jack..." His voice gets stuck in his throat there, and no matter how much he wants to, he cannot swallow the lump forming in his throat. He can see Jack's concerned eyes as if the man were right in front of him, staring at him darkly from the depth of his imagination. "Listen, I just... I cut my hand pretty badly and I think I need stitches." His voice gets out calmer than he thought it would and hearing it makes his shoulders both shake and relax. On his side, Jack waits for a second for anything else to come, realizing a good thirty seconds of silence after that nothing would.

"I suppose you haven't called me at 4 a.m. to tell me that? You overestimate my skills if you think I'm able to suture anything, let alone anyone." His poor attempt at adopting a light tone makes Will smile feebly. He sighs before starting to undo his shirt, stepping into the bathroom. It is quite messy, nearly antiquated. A broken mirror stands alone on the wall, and the doorless shower stands ever open, deep brown moist stains covering its inside. He pulls the phone onto the crackled sink and turns the speakers on to stay on the line while undressing.

"Sorry about that. I just had a nightmare, destroyed my bedside table, the usual." He quickly realizes this is still no explanation about his late call and adds shortly, "I panicked." He gulps and groans softly in self-contempt for being such a terrible liar. "The usual..." Jack falls silent for a long moment after. Once naked, he has to check he didn't end the call. "Jack, you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright." He hears the hesitation in the detective's voice and holds his breath until he goes on. "You know what? Tend to your hand, then rest. We will talk about that tomorrow otherwise Bella is going to kill me. Is that okay?" Will nods before he remembers Jack isn't in the room with him and answers out loud as he steps into the shower.

"Yeah, it's fine. Thanks, Jack." Another short silence follows, and his hand awaits shakily onto the hand shower. "Goodnight." He then adds softly.

"Goodnight Will." Jack echoes and hangs up. He shakes his head and turns the water on. Millions of translucent diamonds splatter across his body and everywhere around. He shuts his eyes close to relish into the feeling of clean and warm water pouring down his skin, hyperaware of each drop making its way down the curves of his abdomen, sliding along his sore muscles. The pain in his wounded hand is bearable, uncomfortable at most. He sighs softly as the warmth forces the knots in his back to come undone, enjoying the soothing moments while they last. He knows already that Jack is going to go hard on him the next day, and even if it is for his own good he feels a hint of irritation at the prospect. The older man certainly provides him with good support, maybe even being one of his very few friends. He nevertheless can't help but feel like being nothing more than a way for him to experience fatherhood by proxy. As he steps out of the shower, he takes a look at his shattered reflection in the mirror. His eyes are underlined by deep purple circles, and his soaked hair makes a black mess around his head. He pulls it back, clearing his forehead before lightly brushing his fingers upon his own image. The irrational wish that the broken pieces of the mirror would come back together crosses both his soul and mind. When the few moments of wonder are passed, he simply shakes his head and resolves to buy a new one.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Beverley smiles at him brightly when he crosses the FBI restricted area limitation lines. He mirrors her expression, happy to grab the coffee cup she hands him graciously. He barely listens to her when she talks though, too tired to honestly care about her overexcited rant about the new case. His attention is fully busy sinking to the bottom of the dark beverage, his eyes scanning each movement the creamy dash of milk executes in the confined black coffee circle.

"So basically we have three bodies, at once. Two have been frozen, as you can see it. According to Zeller the first victim, Marshall Paulson, forty years old, has been killed by stabbing three weeks ago. The two others are yet to identify. The second frozen victim has died about two weeks ago, by stabbing also, and the last is fresher, two days or so ago, stabbed too. We have a pattern of eighty knife wounds per body, no apparent link between the victims, but that is yet to confirm after their final identification. Did you sleep well, by the way? No offense but you look like a zombie." Will thanks her evasively, not listening to the last question. He looks for Jack all around the crime scene but doesn't spot him until a low voice echoes behind him. He almost jumps at the sound, rushing Price in the movement. The grey-haired man groans softly at the collision but doesn't comment and makes his way calmly to the bodies. On his side, Jack laughs and pulls a soothing hand above Will's shoulder.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Will smiles and assures him it's nothing as they make their way through the crowd circling the three victims. "Everybody, leave us ten minutes, will you?" Jack asks in a loud voice, all the detectives present clearing the zone more or less reluctantly afterward."We'll talk just after, alright? Get me all you can, we got nothing for the moment, no fingerprints, no DNA, no blood, no nothing." With that, Jack is gone as well, and Will closes his eyes not to get distracted by all the useless details he spots: blood, a few chatters echoing from afar, birds singing from the top of a tree - all irrelevant. He draws a deep breath in as the golden pendulum starts flashing before his eyes and lets the whole crime unravel in his head.

_I get to the house of Marshall Paulson first, I know he is alone this evening. Not that I know the victim, but I've followed him all day, stalked him. I know he is a lonely man. I recognize people who are just like me: with no one left to love. I get in. He didn't close the front door. If he had locked it, I probably wouldn't have struck. I love to think that his negligence is to blame for his fate. I make my way to the kitchen, just where he eats. It is my first victim, I can feel my blood rushing in my veins, pound at my temples with ferocious intensity. I hold onto my knife for dear life. This weapon is important to me, it's my legacy. I have to wait ten minutes, I won't slip before: it's my gift to Marshall, I want him to have the possibility to see me, and flee. He doesn't. After the delay, I enter the room slowly. He is back to me. I call his name and he turns around. He has no time to even scream before I stab him in the heart. He's dead after barely three minutes but I have to strike him eighty times, it is the number I have chosen for myself, and precision is the core of my becoming. This is my design._

He opens his eyes and doesn't have to see more to know that the killer didn't change his M.O. for the two other victims. As his eyes fall onto the third corpse, he can't help feeling sick. Worse, it's as if he needed to rip his skin off his bones to get the murderer he just let in out of his mind. The dead girl he has under his eyes, wounds covering her abdomen, blood covering her as her ultimate dress, is barely twelve. Jack gets him out of his trance with a soft hand brushing the small of his back.

"Will, are you done?" He nods quickly and turns around, walking away, knowing Jack would follow his steps wherever they lead them. "You don't have to tell me anything now if you don't feel like it."

"Don't worry, it's fine. Mr. Paulson was the killer's first-ever victim. The murders are ritualistic now, he plans things up to the slightest detail and takes pride in executing them precisely. Though, I think his M.O.'s gonna change. In all likelihood, he'll go by series of three victims, each time with a different 'plan'. It's all a challenge to him, he's going to want to increase the difficulty. What's important to him isn't the fame or whatever, it's personal. It's... his becoming." He just realizes in the end that his breath has gone short. They both sit down on a bench a few meters from the restricted area, and Jack nods vaguely, apparently less focused than usual, preoccupied as he is by Will's state.

"Alright. I'll tell the others about this. Any idea about the killer's job, or anything that could lead us to him?" He thinks for a second, his mind refusing to cooperate before an idea imposes itself to him with no real justification. Somehow, he feels deep down his guts that it is accurate.

"Yes... I... I think he's being manipulated. I think he trusts someone who pushed him to do it."

"You mean like a blackmailer or something?" Will shakes his head, feeling uneasy for an unknown reason. His mind goes blank, and he holds his head in shaky hands. He goes on before Jack has a chance to add anything.

"I think he's seeing a psychiatrist. Someone he trusts with his health. They became very close, he probably had an O.C.D. or something along the line. He sought professional help but it just... It crossed the line, at some point, and he lost himself. I think he... I think he's executing someone else's design. I think whoever it is is taking pleasure in being a killer by proxy, manipulating their mind. He gets in their head, it's almost a fetish. He's a control freak, a..." He suddenly understands he sounds like a maniac and lets his voice die in his throat. His breath is ragged, both his hands frozen in the air where they were agitating themselves. He gulps and lets his arms fall back along his body, giving Jack an apologetic glare. "Sorry, bad night. I don't know what's up with me those days." He realizes quickly enough that the look in Jack's eyes has gone from concerned to terrified. "Jack?" The older man melts at his shaky, feeble voice and finally shakes his head, eyes softening.

"We need to talk, Will. You have to tell me what's _really_ going on. You know I want to help you, but I can't do it if you don't let me." He looks down hesitantly, not daring to meet Jack's determined gaze. After a minute of silence, the older man continues. "You are important to me. Not only because you save lives, or because of your skill. You should start trusting me, talk to me. I've known you for what, ten years now? Even more. I know when something is wrong with you." He adds in a laugh, "Plus it goes without saying that you owe me for waking me up at 4 a.m., I'd like to at least know why you denied me my sweet rest." He smiles in return and holds himself, looking at Jack under thick dark lashes.

"I'm sorry, it's just all so weird. I'm having a hard time figuring out what I should or shouldn't do, say or not... I can't concentrate, you know? I'm always exhausted, I'm not certain I can deal with it anymore." He adjusts his glasses onto the bridge of his nose in a nervous gesture, rubbing his cheek afterward. He feels like he has no control over the words getting out of his mouth, and it scares him terribly. "I have nightmares, it's not even every night anymore, it's anytime I close my eyes. I can't sleep, can't even take a nap. The sleeping pills Dr. Bloom prescribed me are useless, they just make me even more tired than I already am." He pauses after a few seconds, gulping as he knows that the hardest part is still the one to come. "I have blackouts." His voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't want Jack to think he is crazy, doesn't want him to see him as a freak, but what other option does he have? He is not certain of himself anymore. "I lose time, for hours sometimes. I get back to myself injured, or in unknown places, with no clue about what I've been doing. I went to three neurologists, but they have no idea what I've got. I got scans, M.R.I.s, everything! I don't know what to do anymore, I don't fucking know what's happening to me." His voice breaks on the last few words, and he can feel the tears well up in his eyes. Jack remains silent for a moment before he softly pulls the younger man closer into a hesitant embrace. The latter stills, unsure how to react, feeling embarrassment heat his cheeks.

"We're going to find a solution." Somehow, hearing those words uttered in this deep, confident voice makes the younger man believe they indeed will. He relaxes slightly inside Jack's arms, one single tear making its way down his face. "Now that I think about it..." Jack's hesitance makes him look up, the sight of his dark caring eyes striking him as both insultingly and comfortingly paternalistic. He opts for sweet indignation and straightens up, saving the bit of pride he still has left. Jack barely notices it and keeps talking in a slow voice. "I have a friend who could probably help you, but I know you won't like the idea."

"If it includes any kind of psychoanalysis I indeed won't. We already talked about that." His tone has gone defensive already, and Jack sighs, looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Listen I can't force you to do anything, but it seems to be the best option. I know you'll refuse Dr. Bloom or the others I introduced you to, but I know someone else, a very good friend of mine actually, who I think could suit you." He looks at jack with a watchful eye, as if searching for any sign of an upcoming deception hidden in his face. "Listen, I'll talk to him, see if he's up to it, and you'll just have to see him once, unofficially that is. If you like him you'll become his patient, otherwise, we'll never talk about it anymore and we'll find another solution." He hesitates a second, considering the offer. Would the situation be any different, less urgent, he would decline, but now? Is he in any place to refuse? The displeasure shows upon his face when he realizes that he, in fact, isn't.

"Alright. Whatever you think is best." He mumbles and almost rolls his eyes when he sees Jack beam at the answer. The older man stands up and steps away already, Will watching him go. He stops him before he can go any further with a hesitant voice. "Umh, Jack...?" The man turns with a questioning expression. "Thank you for... everything." Jack nods and winks at him, finally getting to his car. On his side, Will remains silently on the bench, watching a few pedestrians, all indifferent strangers, pass by. As he lowers his eyes, he realizes he has no idea how or when he emptied his cup of coffee.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

On his way to Alana's office, Will can't stop turning the matter in his head, reviewing all the events that have led to this situation. He still can't believe it. He woke up this morning not believing it and he can't bring himself to even hours after. Disregarding the decade he had spent fighting not to get trapped into any therapy, he had given up, just like that. His head hurts like hell already, and he groans knowing that the migraine won't leave before he gets over with _all_ of that. Firstly he has to tell Dr. Bloom about all of this, and surely she is going to be - at the very least - _very fucking pissed_ that he agreed to see a stranger instead of her. It bothers him more than he cares to admit that she'll probably think he doesn't trust her. She has always been nice to him, and the problem is not that he feels uncomfortable with her. His reluctance to be her patient is more about not breaking their friendship, more about her _not_ starting to see him only as a degenerate. He guesses that it kind of means he doesn't trust her, but it is also a sign that he cares about her, right? He also doesn't want to think about the fact that she probably became his friend only because of some misguided professional curiosity.

He parks close to her house and knocks at the door. He smiles as she comes to open it almost instantly, as reactive as usual. That is something to add to the already long list of her qualities. She smiles brightly as she sees him, stepping aside to let him in.

"Hey Will, I didn't know you were coming! I was just preparing myself a Bloody Mary, care to join?" He shrugs simply and goes to his reserved seat in the middle of her sofa. Alana comes to sit next to him shortly after, handing him one of the two reddish cocktails she carries. "So, what brings you here? I hope nothing's wrong?" She takes a sip and cocks her head to the side, the movement causing a cascade of dark locks to pour on her right. Will gulps, trying to swallow the guilt spreading in his chest. He knows this is stupid, all this anguish. A voice suddenly echoes in his head, screaming **_Be a man!_** and making him jump in his seat. He frowns and shakes his head, internally slapping himself at his own antics.

"I agreed to see a psychiatrist, Jack thinks it'd be better." He looks at her anxiously, seeing a good ten emotions cross her face - although noting with relief that none of them is anger. After a few seconds of silence, he feels obliged to continue. "I know that I told you I would never see any therapist, but things have changed recently, and I feel... well, I can say that I am overwhelmed. So I'm ready to try anything, as long as there is the slightest chance for me to get better, if not heal completely." Alana looks at him thoughtfully, eyes soft.

"Tell me, Will, what do you want to heal from?" She takes another sip, and he looks at his own untouched crimson beverage. His voice doesn't sound like his own when he answers - it is too small, too hesitant. He's an introvert but never has he felt that exposed. It's not in his habits to talk about himself, and he certainly doesn't want that to change. He doesn't want anything to change. His life was so... _so simple_ before all of this. Yet he knows he's musing on an already long gone past. The second he agreed to work with Jack, to let all those killers infect his life, he's also agreed to sacrifice his balance and his peace of mind. Somehow, he had it coming.

"I don't even know yet." He sighs and smiles nevertheless, offering her a hesitant glare. "Jack wants to address me to one of his friends... I have no idea who it can be. I'll tell you how it goes." He waits a bit then adds, "If you're okay with that?" Alana smiles brightly, looking far less bothered than he thought she would be.

"Of course. That way I'll know whose ass I must kick if they try to mess up with you." She kisses his temple in a quick gesture, and it takes him so off guard that he freezes for a minute. Either she doesn't notice, either she's polite enough not to comment because she simply takes both their glasses to bring them back to the kitchen. "Is that everything? I got a patient to see in a few minutes, I shall get ready. Not that I don't appreciate your company..." He smiles and nods, getting to the door.

"Duty calls, got it. See you later Alana, thanks for your time." She waves at him from the bay window as he gets back to his car, his headache having doubled in intensity. He tries to convince himself that this is already one less thing to worry about, that it ent well - even when the burning eyes he feels on the back of his skull tell him otherwise. It's only after having driven miles away from Alana's house that he achieves to understand the emotions he saw on her face when he announced her he would see another psychiatrist. She knew it already, apparently because Jack told her. As he realizes how stupid he's been, he stops on the side of the road, almost hitting his head onto the wheel out of frustration. Of course, she wouldn't be that detached; of course, she wouldn't just smile and kiss his damn temple; of course, she had no patient to see because _of course, she sees them at her cabinet and not at her house_. She just wanted to get rid of him. She knows how he reacts to things, she knows exactly how to distract him, and apparently, she has something to hide. That certainty is more than enough to shatter Will's trust.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************


	2. Scordatura

** _ Scordatura: _ **

** **_"The retuning of a stringed instrument in order to play notes below its ordinary range or_ ** ** _to produce an unusual tone color."_ ** **

He's alone in the waiting room, trying to refrain from anxiously crossing his legs over and over again. The impulse is quite easy to resist when he focuses on stilling himself, yet as soon as his mind wanders elsewhere he can't help but being restless, fidgeting with his hands and shifting in his chair. He stares at the black leather couch in front of him, asking himself how everything here can seem so neat, so impossibly aseptic. The first idea that crosses his mind is O.C.D. and he definitely settles on that when he spots magazines onto a little side table at his right, all classified by alphabetic order in a much too neat pile. He shakes his head, remembering he is the one supposed to get profiled today, not his new psychiatrist - _Dr. Lecter_ if the golden inscription on the cabinet door is accurate. The said door opens at 6 p.m., the exact time of his session. The man appears in a well-tailored suit, features angular and expression blank. He smiles as he sees Will, stepping aside to let him in.

"Please come in." Dr. Lecter utters with a thick accent, voice deep and smooth. The younger man walks in slowly, taking in the design of the new room. He can feel the man's two amber eyes fixed on him as he stands near the two chairs positioned one in front of the other at the center of the room, neither daring to sit nor ask to. The cabinet is rather big, as neat as the waiting room, if not more. His attention is immediately drawn to all the little details as he tries to analyze his new acquaintance as quickly as possible - a deeply rooted-defense mechanism. "Mister Graham, I am delighted to meet you. Doctor Hannibal Lecter." The man offers his hand and Will accepts the handshake, feeling both on the defensive and oddly comforted by the other's elegance.

"You can call me Will." He manages to sound satisfyingly confident, offering a nervous smile. He doesn't fool himself though, he knows well enough that his anxiety is evident, if not for his tone, at least for the uncontrollable fidgeting of his hands.

"Alright Will. You may sit down." He nods and obliges, passing a hand in his hair to clear his face. A haircut would be welcome, he thinks, yet doesn't let the thought distract him. "You have been sent by Jack Crawford, am I right? He called me a week ago but didn't tell me much. He probably wanted to let you explain the situation yourself." Will nods again and stares at his own hands in wonder, having no clue how he is supposed to be able to talk about this with a complete stranger. He finds some comfort in the window as he looks up, finding the view of the clouded sky to be of some help.

"Yeah, I... I don't know where to begin. Jack doesn't know much anyway, it's quite a long story..." A little silence follows, and Will looks back at the man only to see a small smile upon his lips. He doesn't know if the sight of it encourages him or makes him even more nervous than he already was. Everything in Dr. Lecter's posture seems controlled, each movement, each expression. He isn't used to meeting people he isn't able to read.

"Is that how you see your life, as a story?" Right, _psychiatrist's improbable existentialist questions: round 1_. He sighs and pinches his nose, feeling too tired to think about anything more subtle than straight facts. At that moment he is up to nothing but a quick sum of his symptoms.

"I don't know." He tells after a moment, not wanting to seem rude yet eager to get to the heart of the matter. The damn doctor seems a way to find the comment interesting and takes notes, making Will frown in slight irritation.

"So, tell me." The man looks up with a peaceful expression, hands holding his notebook above his crossed legs. Will nearly lets himself get lost in the shiny orbs, overwhelmed by an inexplicable sensation of safety. He can feel his muscles relax, blinking after a few seconds as the request sinks in.

"Tell you what?" He asks confusedly, coming back to himself, and lightly shaking his head to wake the hell up.

"The reason why you are here. It apparently isn't solely for your entertainment." Will laughs quietly, a bit uneasily.

"And what gave that away?" He asks with a smile, feeling the words coming more easily. The thought that he could get used to the place crosses his mind, and he is surprised to find himself quite enchanted by the idea.

"Well, nothing but my intuition and the restless movements of your fingers. The fact that you crossed and uncrossed your legs about a dozen times in barely five minutes might have been a hint as well." Will blushes lightly at how obvious he is, rubbing his cheek with his palm. He tries to change the subject by finally answering the initial question, a detail that the doctor, of course, has to take note of in his little pocketbook.

"So um... Yeah, I came here because I've encountered some... inconveniences." He deadpans at his amazing eloquence, fully aware of how pitiful he sounds. "I blackout, quite often actually, and I can't sleep, mainly because of repeated nightmares." The doctor now stares at him with blinding intensity, eyes screwed on him as if he was the only thing worth paying attention in the world. He wonders if he could get used to those eyes, too. For a moment silence stretches, and he wonders if the man is going to go on with his questions, but instead, he closes his notebook very slowly and puts it down onto a coffee table, making sure it is perfectly aligned with the corners of the cabinet before he continues.

"Alright, let's start from the beginning. You told me it was a long story just moments before, and I'd like to hear it." He stills and stares at the man for a second before he feels all the tension go back to his shoulders.

"I don't think I can... I mean... You want to hear my life? Where should I even start?" The doctor smiles at him calmly, perfectly still, unmoved by his obvious panic.

"Wherever you think it is relevant to." He looks away at the _absolutely-not-helpful_ answer and passes a hand over his face, feeling almost crushed by the weight of his sleepless nights upon his shoulders. For a moment neither of them talk, and Will ends up giving up trying to even make a sound, feeling both unable to and comfortable in this supposedly awkward silence. Once or twice he thinks the doctor is about to say something, but each time he simply happens to breathe in and out calmly, immobile. Time passes by and he almost dozes off, seeing darkness starting to settle as night approaches. "Don't you ever wonder how it would be, to open up to someone?" Doctor Lecter finally asks. Will goes out of his meditative retreat in a second and is surprised to feel no tension go back to his muscles. He is also certain that the question should unease him much more than it actually does.

"I do, often, but it always seems impossible... It would be like trying to catch one specific fish in the ocean with nothing but my hands." He lets himself sink a bit in his seat, resting almost all of his body onto the armchair. "I got so many memories, so many irrelevant things that happened, and I don't know how to present things for it all to just... just make sense, you know?" The doctor nods calmly, half of his face disappearing into the shadows, nothing lighting the room but a lamppost shining out of the window. He sighs softly at the peaceful atmosphere, looking outside thoughtfully. "I don't know if I could ever be understood, I think that is the real problem if I am honest with myself. It's this empathy disorder I'm _blessed_ _with_." He lets the two words come out with bitter irony, looking back at his agonizingly calm interlocutor. "I'd love to be able to share that, but I just can't. Most people can't accept the possibility of someone literally getting inside their heads. When they do, they often find that creepy anyway. Not that they're wrong."

"Do you consider yourself _creepy_?" The doctor asks cocking his head to the left. Will thinks for a moment. He somehow feels comforted by the moments of silence in their discussion, being able to take his time, to think properly.

"I used not to... I think I have been someone quite balanced up until I started working with the FBI. I don't know, since then my life simply got... _weird_. It's all those killers, I feel like they're infiltrating my very core, affecting what I am. I won't say I had a normal childhood, I've always been a bit lonely, distancing myself from the others so that they couldn't get too close and wreck me. But that's no big deal, right? I mean I was just a lonely normal kid with a very developed imagination. Nothing to worry about."

"Is there something to worry about, now?" He is caught off guard by the question, not certain he wants to answer it honestly. His attention slips for a second to the sparkles of light reflected by the doctor's straight golden hair, the sight making him smile absently.

"Sometimes I feel like there is. Like there is something inside me desperately trying to take control, but unable to access me. As if... As if I had buried a part of myself alive deep down my soul but it just refused to die." He gulps softly at the end of the sentence, the older man handing him a glass of water before he can even realize how dry his throat was. He murmurs a little _Thank you_ before emptying it hastily.

"And do you wish to see this part of you finally die, or do wish to set it free, Will?" He holds the empty glass in clenched fingers, looking up with calm blue eyes. As azure locks with amber, the answer comes to his lips on its own.

"I wish to be free." He whispers, not certain he is audible. It must have been the case because the doctor's eyes shine in the ambient obscurity, an expression of genuine interest painted across his features. Will suddenly comes to a question he didn't even know he wanted to ask, talking before he could think of it. "Are you from Russia?" Doctor Lecter doesn't seem taken aback by the question and simply smiles.

"Lithuania. Is my accent that heavy?" Will can't stop the words that then escape him, as if they weren't his own.

"You know it is, you want it to be that way." He bites at his bottom lip, looking at the older man's slightly amused expression.

"Is that so? Do you think I am making it up?"

"I think you couldn't bear losing your origins. They're important to you, they made you into the man you are today. You want everyone to hear where you come from." The man's smile gets broader and he shrugs lightly.

"It's an unlikely but interesting hypothesis. Are you profiling me?" The man seems to somehow find the idea very appealing. Behind the mask of amusement, Will even has the impression to see him eager. Yet the said impression is so subtle, so quick to disappear, that he cannot be sure of it.

"It becomes a habit, with time." He hesitates a second before he continues. "Does it scare you?"

"Does the idea of you accessing not only my most intimate thoughts but also the structure of my very being scare me?" Will gulps softly and waits expectantly, looking at the doctor with constricted pupils. The latter seems to hesitate for a moment, then looks around the room, grinning lightly. "Does the idea of me understanding your pain and trying to alleviate it scare you?" The rapidity of Will's answer surprises both of them.

"No." The younger man blinks, realizing he means it.

"Then we are very much alike." The doctor gives Will a satisfied look before checking his watch. "It is already a quarter past midnight." He notes quietly, the brunette rubbing his blood-injected eyes. As he expects to be sent home, already preparing himself for one more night spent alone and unable to close his eyes, the younger man is surprised to see the doctor simply sink a little deeper in his chair, somehow managing to look as intimidating in this position than in the latter. "Shall we talk about your nightmares?" Will blinks, then sighs in comfort, smiles, and nods quietly.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Will doesn't immediately hear his phone ring. When he does, his first reflex is to throw it as far away from him as possible. He curses under his breath as he hears Winston whimper, quickly feeling a flash of guilt for having woken his dog up by throwing a phone at his face again. Not that he had to aim at him, but the little bastard has a real skill for finding himself in all sorts of _wrong place wrong time_ situations. He goes up to check his pet is okay, then grabbing the phone reluctantly. When he sees the ID, he sighs, resigning himself to answer.

"What's up, Jack?"

"Nothing much, I wanted to check you were okay. Hannibal refuses to tell me anything: doctor-patient confidentiality. So, how did it go?" He sits down at the kitchen table, actually realizing he has bought plenty of food for the dogs but nothing for him. The sigh he lets out is so deep he takes ten seconds to recognize it at his own.

"Good, it went good. We talked about many things actually, and for quite a long time. Stayed the whole night at his cabinet, I just came back home an hour ago. You were right, I think he's able to help me... We can always try." He pinches the bridge of his nose, preparing the question a moment before he utters it, even though he already knows the answer. "Say, Jack, can I come to work today? I-" Of course the other man cuts him short, voice half amused half reproachful.

"Will, no. It's Sunday, and I doubt you've slept last night from what you just told me. Rest, get out, see people, whatever. Do something that doesn't imply corpses or psychopaths. I appreciate your involvement but you're taking it too far. You can't spend your whole days doing what we do. It isn't good for anyone." He groans softly at the expected answer, just grabbing some pants before he got to his car.

"Our killer is still on the loose, without even talking about the Chesapeake Ripper case. You need me and I need work. Can't we just agree on that and disregard the other... parameters? Plus it's the first time I hear you worry about my private life." He hears Jack make a little frustrated sound on the other end of the line, driving away silently. He has to wait a good two minutes before an answer comes. He knows the necessity to catch the Chesapeake Ripper as quickly as possible before he goes back to his macabre _hobby_ is hardly arguable.

"I'll ask Hannibal's opinion about the matter. You're driving?"

"Yeah, going to buy some food, why?"

"Just asking." Will chuckles understanding it was just a way to change the subject, shaking his head. Jack's next words quickly make his smile fade though. "Oh, and by the way, be careful, I heard Freddie Lounds is looking for you. Don't know what she's up to but if you see her, don't say anything stupid, got it?"

"Got it." He mumbles, highly unhappy about the idea of having a ginger furry ready to ambush him god knows where or when. "Also, I wanted to ask you... can you please keep things unofficial between Dr. Lecter and me? So I can avoid both the administrative bother and feeling bad about being in a... I don't know, real therapy?"

"Yeah sure, if it's okay with him. I'll ask, I'm seeing him this evening anyway. I gotta go, Zeller is calling me. Can I trust you with taking care of yourself?"

"Jack, I'm not a damn kid."

"Debatable." He groans and sends the phone a death glare, then remembering to look at the road just soon enough not to collide with a heavyweight. "Anyway, see you'."

"Yeah, bye." He hangs up and furrows his brows, stopping at the side of the road. After a moment of silence and reflexion, he realizes that he, in fact, isn't on the way to the mall but driving South, to the forest. His mind goes blank for a second and he gulps, finding the surroundings pretty familiar even though he perfectly knows he never got there whether by car or on foot. He hesitates to make a U-turn, then decides against it and starts back the vehicle. He can feel a misplaced sensation of contentment spread over his body, his hands shaking as he parks near the entry of the woods. Everything seems familiar, much too familiar. He walks down the main pathway, eyes nervously searching the thick foliage of the trees for... for what exactly? He has no idea, but he somehow is certain something is waiting for him, just a few steps away. After a moment he reaches a plain circled by high beeches, the sun shining bright above the lonely parcel of land.

God, was something waiting for him. He doesn't even have to step closer to see it very clearly, to understand exactly what - or who - is lying there, in the long grass. All around him, the smell of death floats in the air, emanating from the three neatly displayed corpses. Will is frozen, feeling his hands shake, his blood pace. _Nothing but a nightmare_, he tells himself at first, _it's nothing but a nightmare_. He can't even bring himself to approach, can't bring himself to see. It's not that the dead bodies scare him, that the smell makes him feel sick - it's the awful thought that he'd remember things he dares not to even think of. He holds his head, trying to steady his breath, fingers quivering so bad he can't even apply any pressure upon his temples. He tries to think, quick, analyze, understand. He remembers this place, there's no doubt he knows it, yet he is also certain that he never got there consciously. As much as the gap in his memory confuses him, it isn't even what brings his knees to feel weak, his heart to fill with absolute panic. What unsettles him, makes his eyes water with fear, is the pleasure spreading in his chest, the pure, unmistakable sting of excitation in his abdomen. When he finally manages to breathe correctly, the sound he produces is one of a wounded beast. A single sentence comes to his mind:__  
__

_Killers always return to the scene of the crime._

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************


	3. Resonance

** _ Resonance: _ **

**_"When several strings are tuned to harmonically related pitches,_ ** ** _**a**ll strings vibrate when only one of them is struck." _ **

Jack knocks at the front door with an exhausted expression. His whole body feels sore, tense, and his head is no better. At least, he can say that he deserves to have a calm evening, simply rest, eat, and talk with his dear friend. Will’s broken blue eyes keep haunting his mind, yet he tries to focus on other things, escape from the stabbing guilt he left the woods with. He smiles brightly as Hannibal opens the door, comforted already by the calm and peaceful expression of the man. This house is maybe the place he feels the most comfortable in, especially since his wife started to turn their home into a living hell.

"Jack, I was waiting for you. Please come in. Isn’t Bella with you?" He steps in and shrugs, shaking his friend’s hand.

"No, she was busy I think, told me she had some business in town. I stopped asking questions a while ago." He laughs heartlessly, Hannibal taking his coat with his usual graciousness and getting to hang it in the closet. Both men then make their way to the dining room, Jack letting himself get offered a glass of red wine. 

"_Romanée-Conti_, a french _Bourgogne_. Maybe one of my favorites, if not for the_ Bâtard-Montrachet_." Hannibal presents the bottle with all the affection due to a dear friend before offering a toast. "How did your day go?", he asks as the glasses cling together, Jack sighing before sitting down. He takes a slow sip, enjoying the velvety texture of the crimson beverage before answering.

"To be honest, it was terrible. I don’t know how things could have gone worse, I doubt it to even have been possible." He watches as Hannibal goes to the kitchen, not waiting for the man to ask him what happened before he goes on. "Will discovered three more bodies this morning, nobody knows why or how. He was supposed to go shopping and found himself in the middle of the woods with three mutilated corpses. That was already a tough beginning, let alone the fact that he waited a whole hour after his discovery before calling us. When we arrived he was unable to utter a word, almost crying… I never saw him in such a state at any crime scene." He finds himself unable to stem the flow of culpability rushing over him and hears his voice crack on the last few words. Hannibal comes back calmly with the food, expression perfectly blank. Jack feels incredibly grateful for the silence, taking another sip of wine.

"Japanese _Matsutake Dobin Mushi_ with pine mushrooms and shrimps." The man presents a teapot filled with fragrant soup on the table, pouring Jack a bowl. "It is known for its stress-relieving properties, I believe it is particularly appropriate after a hard day at work." Jack bends over his bowl, breathing in the warm steam. The fragrance is intoxicating, spicy and smooth.

"It looks delicious." He remarks, Hannibal simply smiling in return as he sits down. "It’s been a while you haven’t served any meat." He also notes after a moment, seeing his friend’s smile broadened at the comment.

"It happens that my usual butcher took a few days off. I am certain he will be back very soon. It is told that he has a very intimate relation to his work."

"Is that so?" Jack asks, delighted by the warm stock getting down his throat. "I guess it must be something really special to end a creature’s life and then face the meat, even trade it. I don’t know, on my side I must admit I never found myself able to feel sorry for pigs’ or cows’ fates." Hannibal chuckles softly at the words, the laugh coming out clear and deep, almost silky to Jack’s ears.

"Me neither. In fact, I can confidently say I never feel guilty eating anything." They let a moment of silence pass before Hannibal finally speaks again. "So, tell me about Will. I can see today’s events are tormenting you."

"Is it that obvious?"

"To me, it is. Will is like a son to you, you’ve been considering him as such for a long time. Seeing his state must be very difficult for you. I believe men’s number one priority has always been their families’ wellbeing. Bella Crawford and Will Graham are your family, Jack. Never underestimate the influence they have on you. If they break, you break." He looks up at Hannibal at those words, finding himself strangely comforted by the idea that his distress is both normal and rational. Things seem always much more simple when Hannibal presents them: he has a way of making anything appear absolutely right. That’s maybe what drew Jack to him in the first place.

"You’re right, as always…" He smiles and shakes his head, taking another sip of wine before talking with all the calm he manages to muster. "I want to believe him when he says he doesn’t remember anything, I also want to believe him when he swears that it is all coincidental: the fact that he found the corpses, that out of all the places he could get to he went to those woods, to this very particular area… The only problem is that it’s my job to rationalize things and that what he’s saying makes absolutely no sense." He rubs his forehead, already feeling the tension of the day overwhelm him again.

"Do you think Will hurt those people? That he killed them?" Jack falls completely silent at the questions. Hearing his doubts formulated this way sounds terrible, and he wishes he could say no. Yet he cannot bring himself to, because he knows it would be a lie.

"Do you think he’d be capable of doing it?" He asks back without answering the previous question, looking up hopefully. Hannibal looks aside at the fireplace, dark ashes lingering there, only witnesses of a once roaring fire. Jack can see his angular features tense softly in concentration, the other man preparing his answer very carefully. 

"You know I can’t tell you anything about what Will tells me during our sessions." He begins slowly, Jack nodding. "Though, I think I can say without violating his trust that the Will we know isn’t a murderer." Jack frowns at the formulation, cocking his head to the right confusedly.

"What do you mean, _the Will we know_?" Hannibal shifts lightly in his chair, sighing.

"I am sorry jack, it’s all I can tell you."

"He isn’t officially your patient." Jack notes, tone both pleading and rather cold. He regrets the words as soon as they escape him but is soon comforted by the doctor’s indulgent eyes.

"You know very well that I value greatly my relations with my patients. Will, albeit not being officially one of them, speaks to me as honestly as if he was, confident I won’t betray him. I respect the beauty of his trust and therefore won’t do anything to break it." He joins his hands, clasping them over the table and internally deliberating whether to add something or not. After a few seconds, he looks up at Jack again and sighs. "If you question his involvement in those murders, I can undoubtedly say that Will Graham is not your killer." Jack waits for a second, staring into Hannibal’s eyes, looking for any sign of the mildest uncertainty. After a moment, he realizes there is none, relief finally taking hold of him.

"That is all I needed to hear." He breathes out, his last doubts efficiently dispelled by Hannibal’s warm smile.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Will is restless, and can’t bring himself not to be. He desperately needs sleep, and after the last days’ events, he just doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to lie still in a bed again. Dr. Lecter’s amber eyes fixed on him seem to dig into his soul as he is seriously questioning his ability to remain seated for the whole time of their session. After a moment the older man stands up and offers Will a hand, smiling reassuringly. The latter accepts it confusedly, holding it tight as he is dragged to a creamy white chaise longue, then pulled down onto it. His dark curls spread over the light cushions, and he sticks with the opinion that this is a terrible idea up until the moment his eyes close on their own. This place definitely has a weird effect on his body.

"Here, try to relax." He can hear the doctor drag a chair closer to him, but finds himself unable to flutter his eyes open. All his muscles are like melting, and he is certain that he couldn’t get up even if he wanted to. His head is tilted to the side, back arched slightly. He thinks for a second that he must look ridiculous but doesn’t try to change his position. This is a much too good opportunity to rest for him to discard it. "Do you feel better now?" He hums softly his approval, nodding. His hands still tremble lightly from exhaustion, but he is delighted by the sensation of calm spreading over his body.

"How is it even possible that I feel so serene here?" He asks quietly, mind focusing on the feeling of the curved day bed against the small of his back.

"This place is emotionally neutral for you, it probably triggers a sense of safety since it doesn’t bring back any memories, neither bad nor good. See this cabinet as a dream holiday location for your mind." Will nods lightly in answer, letting the deep voice cradle him. A draft of air passes above his skin, making him shiver. "Are you cold?" Once again, he is surprised by the doctor’s ability to notice the slightest of his movements. The thought makes him hyperaware, wanting to control each of the messages sent by his body against his will.

"No, it’s fine. Is the window open?" The doctor remains silent for a moment, and Will can almost see him frown despite his closed eyes.

"It is, you opened it yourself as soon as you came in." He gulps and tries to remember doing it, failing. In his attempt, he even realizes he has no memory of the beginning of their session. He falls silent, starting to tremble lightly. A soothing hand comes to rest above his forehead, warm and careful. He leans into the touch thoughtlessly, his mind still desperately trying to make some sense out of broken strings of images. "It’s okay, there is nothing to worry about." He hears the calm voice, wondering if it now echoes closer to his ear or if the rapprochement is just in his imagination. He can’t help a bitter laugh to escape him at the words.

"Nothing to worry about? I blackout almost every three minutes, I think there is an awful lot to worry about. I don’t even know what’s happening to me." As a silence follows, he manages to raise his eyelids, his vision a bit blurry as both his eyes are completely dry. "Wait…" He breathes out seeing the doctor’s expression, sitting up abruptly and grabbing his hand in a death grip. "You know, right? Do you know what’s going on? Tell me. Please, I need to know." He approaches, seeing the doctor give him a hesitant glance.

"I have no certainty." He finally says after a moment. "I might as well be wrong, and I cannot be careless about my diagnosis." Will shakes his head, and squeezes his fingers around Dr. Lecter’s wrist, looking at him with blue beseeching eyes.

"Tell me, I’ll take it as a possibility, nothing more. At least I’ll have the beginning of an answer. It’s all driving me mad." When he still gets nothing, he adds shakily, "Please." The other man calmly looks at their intertwined fingers before he sighs, giving in.

"It might be a D.I.D." Will lets the information sink in, then frowning. He frees his hands and stands up, starting to pace. The older man doesn’t wait before continuing imperturbably. "Dissociative Identity Disorder. I believe your empathy disorder caused your sense of self to be unstable and possibly, with time, to split. As I already told you, it is only a possibility, and I cannot be sure of-" Will cuts him off abruptly, too shocked to even realize it.

"What makes you say that? Have I done anything weird? I never… God, nobody ever suspected that, nobody… That’s insane, it’s impossible. _It’s impossible_." He continues to pace all over the room until the doctor gets up to stop him calmly, two steady hands maintaining his shoulders still.

"Will, please calm down, it’s okay."

"Have you told Jack?"

"No."

"God, I’m going to lose my job…" Blood rushes in his veins, he can feel his heart beat insanely fast in his rib cage.

"Will-" He doesn’t even hear him, he can’t hear anything but his own ragged breath.

"This is going to be the end of me…"

"_Will_." The deep, authoritative voice startles him, and for a moment he cannot do anything but stare at the two amber eyes fixed upon him, almost forgetting his panic. He lets himself get seated again and swallows obediently the water the doctor presents him. After a few minutes of silence, the older man’s thumb drawing sooting circles upon his back, his breath gets steadier, and he can feel himself relax slightly. "Don’t try to speak, or even think. Just listen to me, and focus on my voice. Nod if you understand." He nods slowly, almost whining as the warm hand leaves his back, Dr. Lecter sitting back in front of him. "Everything is going to be all right. Jack doesn’t need to know about this, and you are, as you have always been, more than able to do your job. Tonight you are going to sleep here because you know you need to. You won’t be able to stay asleep the whole night, and it is fine. You will wake up, and we will talk. Is that okay?" He nods, feeling dizzy and a bit sick. "Good. You are not being yourself, you are too exhausted, but when you will wake up, everything will seem clearer. You will feel good. Do you trust me, Will? Do you believe me?" He nods again, slowly, then more confidently. The idea that the man could be wrong - that this calm and accentuated voice could utter lies - doesn’t even cross his mind. He is vaguely conscious of being covered with sweat, and of damp wicks of hair sticking to his forehead, but he feels too weak to do anything about it. He lets the doctor help him up, helping him to walk back to the chaise longue. He lies on it, eyes already starting to close back. Though, before they have a chance to, he feels something inexplicable rise in his chest, grabs Dr. Lecter’s collar with a feeble hand and lets his trembling lips find the man’s ear. Even as he speaks them, the sense of his own words eludes him 

"It was written on the bodies, a note, my note… _I see you_." The end of his sentence gets lost in a whisper as he falls unconscious.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is the full moon shining through the window. His head feels heavy, ears ringing lightly, but the comfort brought by those few hours of sleep is immense. He sits up slowly, soon noticing the two amber eyes watching him.

"How do you feel?" The deep voice asks, and he can only shrug lightly, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Better than I did a few hours ago…" The doctor seems quite amused by the answer but doesn’t say anything. He offers Will another glass of water, which he welcomes gratefully. "What time is it?" He asks after a few seconds.

"Almost 2 a.m." The older man answers calmly, watching him empty his glass with his usual intense glare. Will freezes before looking back at him with guilty eyes.

"God, I’m so sorry… You must be exhausted." The doctor lets a clear laugh out and Will can’t help but smile at the sound.

"Don’t worry about this, I’ve never needed a lot of sleep. No nightmares?" He blinks, just realizing how amazing that is, smile getting broader and broader as the fact that he spent five good hours of sleep sinks in.

"No… No, I didn’t get any." Dr. Lecter lets him a few minutes of calm contentment before he speaks again, tone grave.

"I think there is something we should talk about." Will gulps and nods softly, feeling much more able to deal with their conversation now that he is rested. "You said something to me before you fell asleep, do you remember?" Will closes his eyes and nods, repeating his words.

"I said: _It was written on the bodies, a note, my note, I see you_." He then scratches the back of his head, frowning. "I have no idea what it means though."

"Think about it, try to establish some links. Surely you can understand a sentence your own mind formulated." Will sighs and tilts his head to the side, eyes unfocused as he tries to search his memory for any hints. After a few minutes, his eyes light up.

"Oh, the note… I remember now. It was nailed on one of the bodies!" His smile disappears quickly enough when he understands the implications of his discovery. "Wait… does it mean… my note? Does it mean I… God…" He mumbles confusedly but shows no sign of panic, which happens to already be a slight relief.

"What does it mean, according to you, Will?" The doctor asks calmly, Will throwing him a fearful glare.

"That I… That I killed…" He falls silent, passing nervous fingers through his hair. "No, I didn’t do it, I couldn’t. I know who I am, I know who I am. There must be another explanation." He knows he sounds defensive, on the verge of aggressive, but he finds himself unable to control that.

"I never told there wasn’t any other explanation, Will. I think you are right. I am not the one having doubts about you. You are." Will gulps and stares at the other man, amazed by how comforting his words are to him. "Now I want you to answer honestly, do you think you could have killed those people?" Will pauses a second before he looks at his hands. He fixes his eyes on them, letting silence stretch before he answers.

"When I saw the bodies, in the woods, I first thought I was the killer. I really believed, for a moment at least, that I had done it." He looks up, only to find the doctor’s two amber eyes glimmer with something he can’t name. "Then, as time passed, I just lost the ability to question my first impression, and I kept thinking that I was responsible for the murders." His eyes lose focus, and he rubs his cheek in an automatic gesture. He feels, all of a sudden, incredibly calm. "Now, I know I am not. I lost myself, I think. I let this killer get into my head and for a few horrible hours, I forgot I was there, too. But now I know. I am not like him. This wasn’t my design, but his." Dr. Lecter seems to be satisfied with the answer, smiling peacefully at Will. As he manages to look more closely, the younger man even has the impression of spotting some mischief in the two sharp amber eyes.

"Then how do you explain the note?" For a second he wonders if the doctor’s voice is actually playful or if he imagines it. He settles for the second option and blames it on the remains of his tiredness.

"I can’t explain it." He finally concedes, looking up at the ceiling. "Maybe I just raved, I wasn’t in my right mind. After all, nothing proves I was right when I said it was my note." Dr. Lecter smiles, and Will feels himself better than ever, starting to question his state. It feels all too good to be true. He eyes his glass of water, then looks at the other man. "Say, there was nothing but water in this glass… right?" The question earns him a deep chuckle and he wishes he could repeat it just to hear that sound again.

"Water, and a bit of sugar. You haven’t eaten for a while. I assure you that this has nothing to do with your current euphoric state. This is only due to your brief sleep following a long period of insomnia. It’s perfectly common." Will nods. He lets his mind wander from a thought to the other before he freezes completely.

"I am not your official patient, right?" He blurts out after a few seconds. The doctor frowns ever so slightly, nodding. "Did you speak to Jack about… Well… Everything I told you? Do you intend to?" The doctor sighs, seemingly hurt by the questions.

"No, Will. As I told you already, Jack doesn’t need to know anything."

"But I’m sure he’ll ask you questions, he told you were friends." He can’t help feeling resentful at the idea even if he knows it is ridiculous.

"Questions I won’t answer." Dr. Lecter assures calmly, fixing confident eyes on Will. The latter nods hesitantly, rather unconvinced, fidgeting with the fabric of his T-shirt. "The idea of Jack being my friend seems to bother you." He states after a moment, the younger man twitching slightly at the words.

"I… think it does." He whispers, now resolutely avoiding the amber eyes.

"Can I know why?" He hesitates for a long moment before he can finally force himself to answer.

"When he looked at me yesterday morning, in the plain, I saw doubt in his eyes. Fear, even. I think he doesn’t trust me." He then falls silent, words failing him. He realizes for the first time how much Jack’s opinion affects him.

"And what does it have to do with our friendship?" The doctor continues, Will raising his eyes to look right into the other's.

"When you look at me, I know you trust me, it’s written in your eyes. You see me." He closes his eyes and continues in a low voice. "I don’t want Jack to break that." Dr. Lecter remains silent, and Will starts to wonder whether he fell asleep when a soft hand brushes his chin. He forces his eyes open and looks up, watching the man standing over him, calm amber eyes staring right into his soul. The confident hand squeezes softly his jaw and the contact makes him feel lightheaded, on the verge of uncomfortable.

« He won’t. » Dr. Lecter breathes out. Will waits a moment, trying to acknowledge the words as an undeniable truth. But he can’t: for the first time, he finds himself completely unable to believe Hannibal.

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************


	4. Klangfarbenmelodie

** _ Klangfarbenmelodie: _ **

** _"The technique of altering the tone color of a single note or musical line __by changing from one instrument to the other in the middle of the said note or line."_ **

The sun is setting, falling below the horizon as he pulls once again his pencil to paper. _Toccata and Fugue _echoes in his back, the melody muffled by the closed door. Organ is far from being his favorite instrument, it’s too massive, on the verge of inelegance - what makes it tolerable is its grandiosity, its _panache_. He is already halfway through his sketch, bodies finely outlined, shades patiently marked with thousands of tiny lines. He thinks for a second that something misses, scanning the refined drawing with careful eyes. He quickly realizes the face of his _San Gerolamo _is so similar to the original version that it lacks the smoothness of Will’s features, the collarbone being much too stiff, the cheekbones too pronounced. He only notices Alana is back under the porch with him when she bends over his shoulder, resting her hand upon it. The smell of her perfume aggresses his senses before he can get used to it, and he has to force a small smile onto his lips.

"My… He does look sad." She notes, eyes shining as they fall upon the drawing. For a second, he lets his mind wander, looking at her above his shoulder. He thinks about serving her eyes: two blue orbs dissected, then displayed in fine china. He would make them boil before cutting them open. The white organs would feel fragile under his scalpel, firstly offering some resistance to the blade before giving in, letting themselves be cut open. The aqueous and the vitreous humor would firstly escape their pierced cages before letting the white and puffy lenses to be seen. Strangely enough, they would seem like some egg white, yet be completely tasteless. He would have to use all sorts of spices to give them the gustative value they deserve. He could mince them and use some turmeric, maybe a bit of lemon - a little delicacy to compliment her roasted cheeks. He barely hears her as she continues to comment softly, her plump lips curling into a smile. "It’s beautiful, what’s the original painting?" She turns her glimmering orbs to him again, and he has to make an actual effort not to slit her offered throat open. It would be so easy, to just reach for his pencil sharpener, a few inches away from his teacup, with a quick movement of the arm… He looks away to be able to focus on his answer.

"Caravaggio’s _San Gerolamo_. The history of the saint in question is far from interesting, yet the expression of the painted figure is striking. Softly agonizing, focused, all muscles tensed in a quiet form of struggle." She laughs and shakes her head, getting to sit beside him.

"I take it that you miss Italia."

"I do." He confirms simply, continuing to work. She watches him for a few seconds, eyes unfocused and wondering. He knows exactly what is going on in her mind, as if her brain was exposed right in front of him, out of her skull. He knows she wants to broach the subject of Will Graham but doesn’t know how to, trying to find smooth ways of deviating the conversation so she could get some information about his therapy without asking anything straightforwardly. He finds it cowardly, and unpleasantly unsubtle, even before she speaks.

"So, do you draw all of your patients as saints or just Will?" She asks as a joke, and were he anyone else, he would actually have been fooled by her jovial voice. Yet he isn’t _anyone else _and the attempt manages to irritate him quite effectively.

"Just Will." He simply answers, smiling calmly.

"Yet… he isn’t officially your patient, right?" She then asks, getting a bit closer, sipping on her martini while throwing him a questioning glance.

"Will didn’t want to complicate things with all the administrative actions required for an official therapy, but I can assure you that I am indeed his psychiatrist." He focuses on the movements of his own wrist, trying not to give his displeasure away. "Is there any confusion concerning the nature of my role in his life?" Alana shrugs and looks at his precise strokes, apparently amazed by his slow and gracious work.

"No, I was simply asking… He’s always refused me as his therapist. I don’t know why." Hannibal’s hand stills a second above the paper. He doesn’t look up.

"Are you certain you don’t?" He asks after a few seconds, fingers moving again. He now adds a few dark and thick lashes above Will’s blue orbs, the colors vibrant in his mind even though his drawing is in nothing but a dozen shades of grey. He can almost see the fragile, opal colored skin under his pencil lead, all the bones graciously underlined by hues of red and pink, the intensity of the tint of blushing skin only surpassed by the light crimson of two swollen lips. He is vaguely aware of Alana shifting in her seat out of embarrassment beside him and sighs as she apparently refuses to answer. "You two seem to be close. Don’t you think he is scared that becoming your patient would push you away on a personal plan?"

"How could I know? He’s not particularly easy to read. Honestly, I have no idea what are his feelings for me, it’s frustrating." She sighs and pulls her glass down as he finally closes his sketchbook. Looking up at her, he realizes she tied her hair up in an elegant bun, braids circling her skull. The music stops behind them both and he stands up to get inside the living room, Alana following him shortly.

"You could ask him. I am certain that he would be enchanted to discuss the matter with you." It isn’t particularly true, but he can tolerate the shadow of a lie if it can prevent her from coming here every day hoping he’d drop some information.

"You know it isn’t true." She crosses her arms above her chest, staring at him as she sits on his sofa. He lets silence stretch before he sits back next to her, calm eyes scanning hers.

"Tell me, Alana, you complain about his lack of… clarity concerning the nature of his feelings for you. Yet, can you really blame him when you are at the very least as confused as he is? "

"What do you mean?" She frowns, and he can already hear her defensive tone. He suppresses a light smirk and goes on.

"You want Will to talk to you, right?" She nods. "Well, why don’t _you _talk to _him_. I believe that you are equally responsible for the stagnation of your relations. Were he to talk to you, do you even know what you would want him to say? How you would react?" She waits for a second, chewing onto her bottom lip.

"He’s a good friend…" She whispers when silence becomes suffocating. She fidgets with her fingers, and he witnesses with a high degree of satisfaction that her expression is one of pure loss. "I… I don’t really know. I’ve always thought we could be more, but it never seemed to be the right time. His mental state has been deteriorating, his work overwhelms him. It just doesn’t seem right for me to step into his life."

"What tells you that you would disrupt it? Haven’t you ever thought that you could exert a positive influence on him?" She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head.

"It’s not only that… I’m just not certain I can see him as _just Will_. To me it has always been _Will and his empathy disorder_, do you see what I mean?"

"You fear that your professional curiosity would harm you both?" She nods again. "Well, in this case, I’m afraid I cannot be of any help. Your mind is yours to tame, Alana." She looks at him, hesitating before she speaks.

"Hannibal, say… you’ll take good care of him, right? And tell me if you need anything, any information. I can help him." He takes her hand, making sure to give her his most reassuring smile.

"I will take care of him." He simply promises, making no comment about her last sentence. He still has to deliberate whether her role will be one of a nuisance or this of a tool.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

Bedelia du Maurier has many times proven to be one of his most entertaining acquaintances. He delights in the power she gives him, thinking she’s only consolidating hers. All their sessions, all these conversations, she thought _she_ was learning things about _him_, when in fact _he _was scanning _her_ soul, learning how _her _mind functioned. Though, as much as he loves toying with her mind, he didn’t drag Bedelia in his life solely to exercise his Machiavellian ways. She can even be of some help when coming to decipher his own feelings, which shows to be useful in a restricted yet not negligible number of situations. He can confidently say that Will Graham’s entry in his life is one of those situations. Not that he feels lost - that’s not something he’s even sure could happen anymore - but he feels at least _rather uncomfortable _with his new obsession. Again, the problem isn’t really the obsessive nature of his feelings but more the feelings themselves. Raw fascination laced with some sort of tenderness, maybe a hint of possessiveness already. As they talk, he’s looking at her intensely, knowing all too well the effects his predatory and calm gaze has on her. He relishes in the sweet and compulsive fidgeting of her restless fingers.

"You seem to care a lot about this new friend, Hannibal." She simply states after he’s talked, chin dressed high. She tries to show she’s not scared - a blatant lie - and she’s good at it. Each of their sessions is nothing but a verbal duel he always wins.

"I think I do. He is an interesting patient, a mind with unique and enthralling capacities. I find myself, I think, in the very enviable position of being his one and only confidant." His chin rests upon his hand and she looks at him with shiny eyes, stiff in her chair.

"Yet, you are used to frequent deviant individuals who confide only in you. Will must be somehow different from your other patients for you to be particularly…" She firstly gropes for words, lips pursed as she tries to find the right ones. She finally settles on the end of her sentence after a few seconds of deliberation, talking it with a careful voice. "… _drawn_ to him." Hannibal looks at her wearily, seemingly not finding this conversation to his taste.

"Will isn’t a _deviant individual_." He finally says coldly, Bedelia frowning very slightly but perceptibly at the words. She lets silence stretch, each second of it making her more nervous and desperate to find a better formulation. She ignores how right she is to be scared.

"Then what is he?" She finally asks. Hannibal stares at her in wonder, eyes shining.

"I have _no idea_." He breathes out. "A creature I can’t grasp fully. Sometimes, it’s even as if…" He silences himself, twitching ever so slightly, startled as a certain truth imposes itself to him rather abruptly. He isn’t used to be taken off guard by anything, let alone his own thoughts.

"As if?" Bedelia asks as she sees him freeze, blinking lightly in surprise at his unusual behavior.

"As if he was a reflection of my own self." He finally says. One of his fingers starts to tap repeatedly over the armchair, being the only sign of his displeasure. The thought disturbs him more than he dares to admit and voicing it seems both right and wrong. "I am not certain it is the right way to say it." He adds after a few seconds of silence. The remark earns him a quizzical glare and a quick answer from Bedelia.

"It’s unlike you not to know how to express your feelings." His lips purse in light disapproval and he grants her a death glare, making the smile upon her lips vanish in a flash.

"I would say the term _reflexions_ is more appropriate than… _feelings_. I must admit that I am still unsure as to the meaning of my emotional answers to our sessions." He pauses for a few seconds before lifting intense amber eyes to Bedelia’s blue ones, the glare sending shivers down her spine. "However…" He takes a short breath in. "My interest in Will Graham is purely intellectual."

"Though, you don’t deny that your sessions with him triggered _emotional answers _from you?" He really starts to hate the turn this conversation has taken. For the first time, he feels overpowered. That’s not something he’s either used to or likes to experience. He remains silent, looking right in her eyes as he tries to formulate a right answer to this. She doesn’t dare to look away.

"I indeed cannot deny it." He finally says.

"And what is so special about him?" Her eyes glimmer and he knows she relishes in finding him so confused. _Rira bien qui rira le dernier _is the only thought the sight brings him. Though, when he starts to muse on an answer to give her, all image of Bedelia vanishes from his mind, only Will’s big blue eyes remaining there, wet with tears and red with his usual lack of sleep.

"Will Graham…" The name feels like honey onto his tongue. "… possesses an incredible form of strength, all covered by a deceiving layer of vulnerability." She is quick to interrupt before he can continue.

"Does it remind you of your own perfectly tailored, deceiving human suit?" She utters the words carefully, in a nearly ecstatic way. He smiles lightly, amused by the formulation.

"I am nothing if not _human_, Bedelia, whereas Will is everything but vulnerable." She looks away, expression unreadable - even to him. "But it indeed reminds me of my own… capacities of adaptation."

"Is that the way you’d qualify Will’s vulnerability? As a means to adapt? It doesn’t sound a very wise way to try to fit into the world."

"Yet it is. It allows him to lie to the world and most importantly to himself. No-one would really mistrust him, doubt him. Even if anyone did, they would always find excuses for the things in him they cannot understand nor accept, such as madness, mental instability… His mind itself is terrified by its own potential. Feeling vulnerable and overpowered by his capacities is a way to embellish the image he has built of himself over the years." He then pauses and shakes his head, tilting it to the side. "No matter how I try to formulate things, I always come back to this feeling."

"What feeling?" He sighs deeply, adjusting his cufflinks in a slightly nervous gesture.

"One of dissatisfaction. He’s not a person I could define with words." She looks at him and lets silence stretch, seemingly lost in her own thoughts for a while. After a few seconds, she finally speaks in an absent-minded voice.

"Am I a person you could define with words, Hannibal?" His smile broadens as he hears the question, eyes bright with veiled contempt.

"If I tried to, yes." He simply answers as she looks up, face closed.

"You could, yet you don’t want to?" She tells, words less and less audible, probably not even aware of her slightly haggard state. "Can I ask why?"

"It envelops you with a welcome fog of uncertainty. I like it as it is." She closes her eyes before lifting her eyelids hardly high enough to see him.

"For now?", she tells, her intonation between affirmative and questioning.

"For now." He confirms as she closes her eyes again, gulping difficultly. When she opens them, her pupils are dilated, the light blue of her irises losing itself into a deep and large circle of black.

"How do you think Will perceives you?" She finally asks.

"As a support, a means to escape - even if only for a few hours per week - the turmoil settling in his mind. He’s calmer with me, he lets his guard down." Bedelia waits a moment before she continues.

"And how do you think_ I_ perceive you?" Hannibal waits for a second, scanning her. His face is rather blank, one of his fingers absently drawing circles over his cheek.

"You keep making parallels between you and Will Graham, Bedelia. Can I know why is that?" She lets her hand pass over a wick of her golden hair, pulling it back behind her shoulder, her chin is left high. The position exposes her throat. Hannibal lets his gaze linger there, but when she sees it, she’s quick to pass a nervous hand to cover it. For a second, he wonders if she knows the nature of the thoughts the sight of a vulnerable body brings him, trying to scan the doctor’s two deep blue eyes. When he sees the fear in them, he concludes that all her defensive responses to him are purely instinctive. The thought ravishes him - he feels like having trapped a little bird in his wolf cage. He knows already he can wait any moment to just reach out and engulf it. After a few seconds, she finally managed to answer.

"We seem to have a few things in common." She simply says. Hannibal shrugs lightly, smiling. "First and main one being you." She whispers right after.

"Does it make you feel like he’s family?" He asks, amber eyes scanning Bedelia. She huffs softly at the question, smiling lightly.

"I don’t see _you _like family, Hannibal." He smirks, still watching her calmly.

"Are you certain of that?" He simply asks quietly. She prepares herself to speak but just before, she silences herself, her smile dropping. The more she thinks about it, the less she finds herself able to answer.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************


	5. Dissonance

_ **Dissonance:** _

_ ** "Harsh, discordant, and lack of harmony. Also, a chord that sounds incomplete until it resolves itself on a harmonious chord." ** _

Jack receives the call quite late, at 7 p.m. approximately. He is on his way home, and the first thing he wants to do is hang up. Yet, when he sees the I.D. his phone displays, he answers instantly, turning the speakers on. 

“Hannibal? Is everything all right?” He asks as soon as the call starts, reminding himself to look at the road and not at his screen. There is a little silence on the other end of the line before the doctor responds.

"Yes. Sorry to disturb you, Jack. I was wondering if Will was with you, by any chance? We had a session at 6:30 but he didn’t show up at the cabinet." Jack feels himself tense in concern already. He stops on the side of the road, finally grabbing the phone.

"He isn’t with me. Have you tried to call him?"

"I did try, but he didn’t answer his phone." They both let an anxious silence stretch for a few minutes before Jack finally gulps, an inferno of thoughts taking possession of his mind already: _What if Will is hurt? What if he hurt himself? What if he’s been attacked? What if… What if…_ Much too many _What ifs_ parading inside his skull at the same time.

"All right, all right. I’ll go to his house, check on him. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on." He starts back the engine, pausing before he feels obliged to add - much more to try to convince himself than for Hannibal’s sake, "I’m certain he’s fine. He probably just forgot about the session." Hannibal doesn’t answer for a moment. A short breath simply echoes on his end of the line, followed by a nervous gulp.

"Call me as soon as you see him." Hannibal simply adds, his tone showing clearly enough that he would much rather go himself. The doctor hangs up, and Jack makes a U-turn with light speed, driving away to Will’s house. He can’t help clenching his jaw in tension, feeling his heartbeat helplessly fast. Will _is_ his son, he feels like it, feels a staging amount of obligation towards him. He feels the responsibility to protect him, even if only from himself. The worst part of this is that he knows from the way Will talks about his sessions with Hannibal that he would never miss one willingly, even for a broken leg. He finally stops in front of the little house, getting out of the car then to the front door, frowning as he sees that all the curtains are shut close. He knocks, waiting a few minutes before he hears someone coming to open.

"Y-yes…?" When he sees Will, Jack immediately knows something is… _different_. The younger man stands there in nothing but sweatpants, trying to scan Jack’s face without meeting his eyes. His whole body is relaxed - uncharacteristically relaxed - and the detective can’t help but frown at the slight stutter he hears in his voice. A few dogs make their way out of the house, taking advantage of the opened door.

"Hello, Will, I hope I’m not interrupting anything." He is immediately cut off, Will finally looking him in the eye.

"Y-you actually are." His voice isn’t reproachful, simply emotionless and quiet. He stares at Jack without blinking now, waiting for the older man to go on. Yet the latter is so taken off guard by the intensity of Will’s blue glare that he is left completely speechless, staring back with his lips parted. "Are you okay, sir?" Will finally asks, still with no concern, just complete indifference. He crosses his arms above his chest, and Jack finally comes back to reality as he hears the younger man call him _sir_. He lets out a nervous laugh, not believing his ears.

"Will? What are you playing at? Come on, let me in, it’ll be better to talk." Will stares in silence, then frowns softly.

"I’m afraid I don’t see any reason t-to let you in." He looks around slightly, instinctively starting to half-close the door, keeping Jack from entering. "M-may I know who you are?" That’s it, Jack’s blood pounds at a raging pace in his veins now, and he feels panic start to mess with his usual train of thought.

"It’s Jack, Jack Crawford. Come on Will, you can’t have forgotten about me, right? Tell me that’s all a joke." Will gives him such a jaded expression that it becomes very clear that this is not at all a joke.

"L-Listen sir, I’m a-actually quite busy and you are seemingly quite c-confused. S-so if you’ll excuse me." He closes the door on that, and Jack is much too flabbergasted to do anything about it. He remains here for a good five minutes, a few dogs barking and jumping around him, trying to make some sense out of all of this mess and soon finding himself completely incapable to. He grabs his phone with shaky hands and calls back Hannibal, praying god the doctor isn’t occupied at the moment. He lets out a deep sigh of relief when he hears the deep voice answer.

"Good evening again, Jack. How is Will?" Jack falls silent, the right words to explain the situation eluding him. "Jack?"

"Yes… Listen, Hannibal, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I really need you on that one. I have no clue about what’s going on, Will doesn’t seem to remember me and-" Hannibal doesn’t even wait for jack to finish his sentence before he hastily replies.

"I’ll be there shortly." He hangs up, and Jack cannot do anything but stare at his phone, lost in his thoughts. After a few moments, he slowly makes his way to his car, feeling his head might literally explode at any instant. He waits there for Hannibal to arrive, immobile and expressionless. He feels it already, unable escape the thought:

_It’s the beginning of the end._

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Hannibal arrives exactly 30 minutes later. He goes out of his car with hasty elegance, seeing Jack aside in his grey vehicle. Though, he doesn’t bother to even salute him: they both have other priorities. He goes up a few steps, arrives beneath the porch, and knocks on the door with three quick thuds. There is a moment of silence where he is left to think he’d just be left there on the threshold before soft steps echo and Will finally opens the door. It doesn’t take Hannibal more than a split second before he understands exactly what is going on. The young man considers him slowly, from head to toe, then cracks a shy smile.

"Well, now, D-doctor Lecter…" He steps aside lightly. "D-don’t stay there, p-please… come in." As most persons with a stutter, he often pauses between his words, making his speech rather jerky. The abruptness with which he utters most syllables is counterbalanced by the softness of his voice, which is almost ghostly. The psychiatrist waits a few seconds, then smiles back kindly. He enters carefully, knowing each of his words now has to be chosen which outmost caution.

"It’s a pleasure to see you." Hannibal tells calmly, scanning the other man’s expression. He doesn’t say any name at the end of his sentence, knowing fully well that whoever he is talking to at the moment is _not_ Will. "How has your day been?" The younger man shrugs softly, getting back on the couch where he was previously sitting. He is still bare chest, and his way of curving his slim abdomen is rather characteristic, unusual.

"N-not bad. G-got a bit of research to do, n-nothing more…" The young man avoids Hannibal’s eyes cautiously, cradling himself lightly. "I didn’t… ex… exp-expect you to visit." The psychiatrist nods and goes to sit calmly next to him. His amber eyes shine and he feels a sting of excitation. He wonders, though, whether he should confront his patient about the situation or not. He settles for the first, though willing to take his time.

"I didn’t expect it myself." He tells in his smooth and deep voice. The younger man cracks a smile and rubs softly his cheek in a nervous gesture. "You haven’t presented yourself, though, have you? Who am I talking to?" The young man glares at him with sweet surprise, then letting out a gentle laugh.

"Oh, y-yeah right… You’re a smart m-man, Doctor Lecter. I ain’t got no name. Yet." He offers his hand softly, and the psychiatrist blinks once, considering him a bit skeptically before taking the hand and shaking it carefully. Will’s palm feels soft and tender in his hand, and the contact lasts a second longer than it probably should.

"I see. Can I ask you when we first met? I, of course, have probably missed the first time I saw you, thinking it was Will." The young man falls silent for a moment, staring at Hannibal in wonder. He seems surprised, so the older man starts explaining calmly. "You are a portion of Will’s mind that developed itself individually. An alter, one might say. Are you conscious of your situation?" The brunette huffs a snicker and glares at Hannibal with two laughing cerulean orbs.

"Yeah, yeah I’m c-con… c-conscious of it, Doctor. Lil’ Will must be pretty sick, ain’t he?" He gets up and goes to the fridge, scratching softly his skull, a hand buried in wild dark curls. He turns to Hannibal with a shy smile. "Beer?" He proposes gently. The older man dismisses it softly with a little movement of the head, watching how Will’s spine and shoulder blades stand out on his skinny pale back. He is already slightly reassured that the alter sees himself as such and not as a complete individual, which could have been an issue.

"I’m not certain sick is the word. He’s different." He answers calmly, watching as the other man comes back on the couch with a green little bottle he is already sipping on.

"'D-different' is just a synonym for 'freak'." He answers between two gulps, taking back his place next to Hannibal. "You can call me Chris, or Christopher, b-b… by the way - until I ch-chose myself another name, i-if I do. People call me that. Otherwise, I’m just the wei… weird guy, and I mean… It’s not really specific, is it? C-could be anyone." Hannibal simply nods in answer, frowning softly as Christopher utters the word freak. _That_ is not the kind of vocabulary he fancies. "S-so… Um… The first time we met, l-let me think. At your c-cab… cabinet, I think. It was s-so hot in there, I had to g-g… get all the wind-windows open." Hannibal smiles softly, having expected it. He had noticed the abnormal position of Will during the beginning of this particular session, the previous Monday evening. He promises himself to check all his notes taken during this session to try and analyze the alter. Though, as hard as he tries to recall it, he can’t remember hearing any stutter on that day.

"I don’t recall you stuttering, though." He notes, slightly confused. Christopher smiles at him with that same sweet smile, and he gets goosebumps at how uncharacteristic this expression is for Will. Then again, he has to remind himself it isn’t Will he is talking to.

"With some effort, I can control it." He answers with perfect fluidity. "Though it requires a lot of focus, and I’m just too busy thinking about other stuff to bother most of the time. I just do it when I need to go unnoticed." Christopher’s voice is ghostly, almost a whisper, and Hannibal can hear the hint of hesitation that precedes some words, almost unnoticeable, and only sign of his usual stammering. There’s a moment during which none of them speak, simply looking at each other in complete silence. Christopher tilts his head to the right softly, eyes laughing with indecipherable mischief. "So… You d-didn't tell me why y-you… you came?" The older man doesn’t answer straight away, unsure as to the meaning of that laughing gaze. He leans in softly, a bit closer to Will… or Christopher? Both, probably. His amber eyes are searching, trying to understand exactly what, and who, he is seeing.

"A friend of Will passed by a few moments ago. Jack Crawford. Does it remind you of anyone?" Christopher mimics his every move, leaning in softly as well. There is something arrogant in the softness of his gaze and the way he passes the tip of his tongue upon his bottom lip. Something that make chills run down the doctor's spine.

"Yeah, the FBI old man. He just got here, and I got rid of him. Did he call you?" Hannibal considers him blankly for a second, then smiles lightly, eyes laughing.

"So you_ do_ remember him, in the end?" He asks, considering the younger man with amber curious eyes. "Sorry to disappoint, though, but he’s still in front of the house." Christopher blinks softly and gets up to get to the window, pulling the curtains slightly open to take a glimpse outside, soon enough noting the accuracy of Hannibal’s words. The dark-haired man groans softly, Hannibal letting his eyes wander onto the pale skin of his back, taking in the sight of chiseled and delicate muscles.

"Can’t b-believe that… F-fucking asshole." He shuts back the curtains close, frowning, the psychiatrist granting him a severe glare.

"Language, young man." He scolds softly in his velvety voice, although not without a hint of amusement. "Jack is simply worried about your well-being, you should be thankful for his attention." The words only earn him a shrug, Christoper crossing his arms above his chest and staring at the closed curtains, apparently nervous.

"I-I don’t like people intruding." He simply answers, taking another quick peek outside by pulling the curtains apart ever so slightly with a careful finger. "And he is _constantly _intruding…" He breathes out, shaking his head softly. Hannibal considers him for a moment, tilting his head to the side.

"Am I intruding as well, _Christopher_?" He asks calmly, though genuinely curious about the answer he’d get. Christopher smiles gently and turns to him.

"Why would you? N-no! Of course, you’re not. I’m happy to h-h… have you here." He remains close to the window as if to guard it. "We-We… We have a lot of things i-in common." Hannibal considers him with a hint of surprise, resting his head onto his palm.

"Oh, things in common? Such as…?" He asks softly, amber eyes slightly laughing and tinted with a mix of caution and endearment.

"Well… I’m going to take my best voice for that, watch out." He clears his throat, making his words smooth and deep in a comically manly way, getting to the couch behind Hannibal to rest both forearms on the back of it. "First of all, we’re both ravishing and elegant young men…" Hannibal huffs a laugh, giving him an amused glare above his shoulder.

"Young? I know the notion is relative, but you’re taking it maybe a bit too far, aren’t you?" Christopher shakes his head, making his curls bounce around his face with a slight grin. He goes around the couch to a drawer, taking some proper clothes out of it.

"Not the point." He continues, putting an oversized white T-shirt on. "Second of all, we both got a knack for the… _uncanny_?" He goes out of his act for a second, frowning softly as he takes his sweatpants off, putting on some jeans instead. The psychiatrist has to avert his eyes, jaw tensing softly at the shameless display. Everything about the younger man just seems so… comfortable, yet in an uneasy way? It is quite hard to place for him, even more so now that his mind has been short-circuited by the opal bits of skin he was given to see. So soft, so pale, and so breakable. "Probably not the right word." The dark-haired man goes on. Only one minute after does Hannibal fully process his words, giving him a questioning glare.

"_A knack for the uncanny_? Care to develop?" Christopher smiles, more of his skin now covered. He sits next to the psychiatrist, tugging at his loose top and softly cradling himself. For a second, Hannibal wonders if his behavior is induced by any condition fitting onto the autism spectrum, though the thought is quickly blown away by the younger man’s following words.

"I saw you in the forest. With the last three frozen dudes." He tells, taking a box of cigs out of a drawer before pulling one in his mouth. He lights it up, watching satisfyingly as Hannibal stares at him, completely still for a long,_ long_ moment.

"I beg your pardon?" The older man finally manages to say, considering Christopher with suspicious, watchful eyes. What he is feeling at the moment is rather indescribable; a mix between pleasing and terrifying stupefaction, maybe?

"Just as I said. Didn’t expect that one, did you?" The dark-haired man has quitted his caricatural tone, though letting his voice smooth and slightly deeper than Will’s natural one. "I didn’t quite expect it either. Will would have been upset." He takes a long drag on his cigarette, looking at Hannibal under thick and dark lashes. "You’re lucky he’s less of a stalker than me." He notes, exhaling a dark cloud of smoke as he parts his soft lips. For a second, Hannibal is completely overtaken by the sight, almost forgetting about the danger of this whole situation. Looking at the younger man’s two ocean orbs, he feels like uncovering a part of Will he until now had been forbidden to access - and he loves the crudeness of the discovery, he likes being so close to burn himself on that hazardous flame.

"It was you who left the note…" He breathes out with an expression of absolute wonder. "I must admit I have first thought it was addressed to the killer, not to me." He completes softly, Christopher smiling while taking another puff on his smoke. "Did you follow me from my office?"

"I did… all the way to the woods. I saw you hide but I didn’t quite manage to see who was the murderer you were following." A curl of dark hair slides in front of one of his blue orbs, and all Hannibal wants to do is to clear his dark gaze with a finger, even though he doesn’t. He cannot bring himself to do anything. His body feels very heavy all of a sudden, and it’s a quite puzzling sensation.

"You don’t seem to be particularly moved by the fact that I let a killer run free." The older man notes, trying to get what Christopher’s dispositions towards him are.

"I know too little to be scared. Just enough to get intrigued." The dark-haired man smiles, pulling his cig down right onto the table, disregarding the stub a bit away carelessly. Funnily enough, and to his great surprise, Hannibal finds himself not reacting with either hostility or repulsion to this negligence, even finding it… _charming_. He notices soon enough - and with great pleasure - a shiny edge in Christopher’s blue eyes that tells him the younger man knows exactly what effect he is having on him. "We’re going to your place, by the way. I could hide in your trunk but I guess that would be pretty rude, so I’m warning you." The older man wonders why exactly Christopher keeps on suppressing his stutter, surprised by his words without being particularly unhappy about any of them. In point of fact, the alter shows to be rather rude in his every move, but it is in such a calculated and unique way that Hannibal finds himself unable to bother.

"And why would you want to spend the evening at my house?" He simply asks, the idea of just refusing not even crossing his mind. The prospect of having him over for a few hours, cooking for him, _with_ him, appears as risky, but terribly tempting - even more so knowing that Will could get back to himself at any moment.

"Cause I can’t stay here with Jack, and you can’t leave me here alone. And I’m staying for the night." He smiles, still tugging on the fabric of his T-shirt in a slightly nervous tic. "I-if that’s not a p-problem…?" He then adds softly, tilting his head to the side. Hannibal smiles to himself, wondering if the young man is leaving his stutter take over again simply to soften him. Voluntary or not, anyway, the change in his voice makes the older man’s eyes glimmer with tenderness.

"It isn’t. I have room. But I somehow guess that you know that, already?" Christopher’s smile widens and he bites softly onto his bottom lip.

"How p-perceptive of you…" He giggles, first trying to repress his stammer, but failing to as a laugh parasitizes his speech. "Shall we go, then…?" He asks without much more ceremony, standing up in his lightly crooked, typical way. The psychiatrist nods, standing up and getting to the front door.

"You have to play Will for a few minutes, though, just to convince Jack that everything is fine." Christopher nods, following Hannibal suit, eyes screwed down. His smile disappears quickly and he is already working on straightening his position. They get out one after the other, and as soon as the threshold is passed Christopher takes up his role, straightening his back and taking this sort of soft and distant expression Will so often wears. Jack looks up, smiling nervously at them from his car as they join him. He goes out, standing near the vehicle to greet them.

"Hey. So… Is everything alright?" The detective looks at the two men expectantly, praying internally for everything to come back to normal. Christopher smiles at him slightly, nodding.

"Yes, Jack. I’m so sorry. I have moments of absence sometimes. Just happens, but I’m alright now. I hope I didn’t freak you out too much?" Hannibal glares at the brunette, impressed by the smoothness of his speech. For a second, he even wonders if Will is back amongst them, but a mischievous glance from the younger man soon proves him wrong.

"No, it’s okay. I was just worried about you… Is it going to be okay now?" Jack looks at Hannibal, asking him permission to relax, one could say. The psychiatrist nods quickly, giving his friend a reassuring and calm smile.

"Yes. Will is going to spend the evening with me so that we can talk about what happened. I will take good care of him. Don’t worry Jack, you can go join your wife. Isn’t it, Will?" Christopher gives him a slightly reproachful look after the repeated use of Will’s name, smiling nevertheless a bit wider.

"Of course. Everything’s perfect." Jack stares at them for a second, apparently sensing something is off. He then dismisses the thought by shaking his head, sighing softly.

"Alright, if you say so… I’ll leave you then, give me a call if you need anything, right?" Hannibal nods calmly in answer, Christopher smiling and waving at Jack as he makes his way with the older man to the other car. They both get seated and the brunette sighs, seeing Jack drive away through the rear window.

"Well, finally" Christopher speaks the two words in a sort of exasperated way. The psychiatrist simply smiles silently in return and starts the engine, taking the road towards his house. They don’t utter a word for a moment, Christopher apparently lost in thought, eyes unfocused onto the road and jaw tense. Hannibal is hyperaware of the younger man’s slightest move, analyzing everything, and finding himself aching to find out what exactly is going on beneath his skull and the dark explosion of locks covering it. "Y-you seem particularly calm as t-to… as to the situation." The alter notes after a few moments, regaining his focus all at once, looking up at the driver through dark and heavy lashes with one swift movement of the head.

"Do I have any reason to panic?" Hannibal answers cooly, turning his eyes a second to the younger man before looking back at the road. "I don’t feel endangered. If I did, trust me, you would know it." The other man laughs slightly, shaking his head.

"I guess I would, doctor Lecter, I guess I would…" They soon enough arrive, getting out of the car. Christopher follows Hannibal’s every move cautiously, and the psychiatrist soon finds it to be a quite exhilarating feeling, to be watched and followed that way, with such sharpness and reactivity. He unlocks the door in silence, considering the younger man from the corner of his eyes as he does so. When he can finally push the door open, he steps aside, glaring at the dark-haired man with fascinated and burning eyes.

"Please come in." He breathes out, Christopher grinning and passing very close to him, glaring at the older man with something of a challenge in his eyes.

"If you insist…" He tells with a shy smile that contradicts the boldness of his glare as he disappears inside. Hannibal looks at his back in complete stillness for a second before he finally manages to come back to his senses, amber eyes shining as he disappears in turn in the shadows of the corridor.

This promised to be an interesting night.

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End file.
